A Capital Crime (8 page)

‘I was wondering why he hadn’t used them, sir. After all, it’s been pretty nippy recently.’

‘Perhaps he was using up his coal,’ said Stratton. ‘The thing that’s still puzzling me is the dog. I know that
we
couldn’t smell anything, but you’d think it would have been scrabbling against the door and making no end of a fuss.’

‘Perhaps they didn’t let it into the garden, sir.’

‘I didn’t see any evidence of it – well, except for those bones, but they might have put them out there afterwards. Looked like they used the garden as a rubbish dump, didn’t it?’

‘It was in a bit of a state, sir.’

‘Let’s see what Davies’s aunt and uncle have to say for themselves.’ Stratton scanned the statements. ‘Mrs Howells said that Davies arrived unexpectedly on the fourteenth of November at six thirty in the morning. They hadn’t seen him for three or four years, apparently. Said his employer’s car had broken down in Cardiff and could he stay with them while it was being repaired … Left his suitcase at the station in Cardiff – Mr Howells said he saw a
cloakroom ticket and that Davies told them Muriel and Judy were staying in Brighton until after Christmas … Left on the twenty-first and came back on the twenty-third with a suitcase. Told them Muriel was at their flat when he went back but she walked out without a word and left him holding the baby …’

‘Sounds like our boy all right, sir.’

‘It certainly does. He told Mr and Mrs H. he’d given Judy to some people who’d look after her and paid them fifteen pounds to do it. When they asked why he hadn’t taken her to his mother he said it was because she was out working … hadn’t thought to bring the baby to Wales with him, apparently … Seemed quite contented throughout his visit, went to the pub with his uncle, enjoyed himself … This is a bit odd …’

‘What’s that, sir?’

‘Says Davies bought a present for Judy – a teddy bear.’

‘To throw them off the scent, sir?’

‘Doesn’t sound like he’s bright enough for that. I’d say it’s more likely he was trying to pretend to himself he hadn’t done it – that would fit with the statements he made, wouldn’t it? Anyway … Mrs H. had written to Mrs Davies about him and got a letter back two days ago – which tallies with what she told us – telling her that Davies had sold his furniture and people were dunning her for cash. When Mrs H. confronted him about it, he said his mother was lying and the furniture was still in the flat. Very upset, apparently, couldn’t finish his breakfast, and then he went to the police station. Well, it’s all of a piece, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir. Beats me how he thought he could get away with it.’

‘He probably didn’t think at all … Just made it up as he went along. Right. We’ll need a statement from Mrs Davies. She said she’d not seen him since the beginning of November, didn’t she? Now, I’d better get cracking on this report for DCI Lamb, but if you want to get some kip …’

‘Don’t think I could, sir. Honestly.’

‘Well, ask Cudlipp to set up a couple of camp beds for later,
anyway. And why don’t you see if you can find us a drink? For medicinal purposes, of course. I’m sure there’s a bottle knocking around.’

Left alone, Stratton started bashing out a report for Lamb on the typewriter with two fingers, concentrating like fury in an attempt to keep at bay the pathetic image of Muriel and little Judy lying side by side on their respective slabs. Ballard returned half an hour later, bearing a half-f bottle of brandy. ‘All done, sir.’ As he spoke, he produced a tea cup from each pocket. ‘Shall I? Couldn’t find any glasses, I’m afraid.’

‘Why not?’ Stratton took his fag out of his mouth and picked a shred of tobacco off his lower lip. ‘I’m nearly finished.’

Ballard poured and pushed a cup across the desk towards him. Stratton swallowed and made a face. ‘Filthy.’ He held out the cup for more. ‘Don’t know about you, but I could have done with that a couple of hours ago.’

‘Me too, sir.’

‘Oh,
Christ
… Jenny was pregnant when she died. Not so far gone, but … They thought it would have been a boy.’ It occurred to him then, for the first time, that Jenny might not have told him of the existence of the baby not only because she was afraid he’d be angry – they’d agreed to stop at two – but also because she’d been trying to get rid of it, as Muriel Davies had. That couldn’t have been the case, could it? Jenny loved children, she’d been the best of mothers, she wouldn’t … would she? But if she’d been afraid of giving birth with the doodlebugs, of the world she’d be bringing the child into … Stratton put his hands over his face. ‘I just wish she’d told me,’ he muttered thickly.

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

Stratton jerked his head up. ‘No, Ballard,
I’m
sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I don’t know why I did. But with something like this, it brings it back. You know, I’ve never told anyone – not even the children – only the lady who took them when they were evacuated. When Dr McNally said Muriel Davies definitely
was
pregnant, I felt as if I’d been punched. And Davies killed his wife … I’d give anything to have Jenny back, and the baby. Be five and a half years old, now, if he’d lived … Going off to school. Still …’ Stratton rubbed a hand over his face. ‘No use dwelling on it. Doesn’t do a bloody bit of good.’

‘I suppose not, sir, but it’s rough, all the same. Drop more brandy?’

‘Thank you. You’ll have all that to come, your nipper learning to talk and walk and all the rest of it …’

‘Unlike poor little Judy.’

‘Yes … Too late. Best we can do is nail the bastard that killed her.’

‘I’ll drink to that, sir,’ said Ballard, with fierce solemnity. ‘I’ll certainly drink to that.’

Chapter Twelve

Davies was white-faced, haggard, and very small. Next to DI Grove, who was a large, avuncular type, he seemed like a pygmy, and the top of his head barely came up to Stratton’s shoulder. The camel hair overcoat he wore looked too large, so that he looked like a boy in man’s clothing. Grove had told Stratton on the telephone that Davies was twenty-four years old, but he looked younger. Constable Williams’s description of him as ‘puny’ was spot on, thought Stratton, as the four men walked down the platform at Paddington Station towards the waiting car.

‘All right, was he, on the way back?’ Stratton asked DI Grove as DS Porter and the driver settled Davies in the back seat.

Grove removed the pipe he habitually chomped on and, wiping a hand over his droopy moustache, stained cinnamon with nicotine, said in his distinctive phlegmy rumble, ‘Didn’t talk much. Mind you, neither did we. I’m not sure the lad really understands what’s going on. He’s hardly the brightest – to be honest, I don’t think he’s all there. He asked if his mother’d got in touch with the people looking after his daughter.’

Stratton, aware of a slight ache behind his eyes – he and Ballard had polished off what was left in the bottle before they’d turned in – endeavoured to collect his thoughts.

‘Well, he’s not been told we’ve found the bodies, so perhaps he thinks it’s a good idea to keep on with his story.’

‘I suppose so. Oh, and he told us he didn’t pinch the briefcase, but he didn’t say who did.’

‘I’m surprised he didn’t say it was Backhouse. He seems to be blaming him for everything else.’

They rode to West End Central in silence, Stratton in front beside the driver and Davies, flanked by Grove and Porter, in the back.

Ballard met Stratton in the lobby. ‘Mrs Davies has identified the bodies, sir, so there’s no difficulty there. She’s made a statement, too. There’s not much new, although she did tell us that there’s some insanity in the family. Her grandfather and an uncle died in asylums, and her father was violent.’

‘I suppose it’s not surprising. Grove and Porter are bringing Davies in now. Tell Cudlipp I want him taken straight through to the Charge Room. I’ll be waiting.’

Once in the Charge Room, Stratton arranged the two piles of clothing on a desk so that the tablecloth and the sash cord were on top of Muriel’s, and the tie – still tightly knotted, but slit at the back in order to remove it – on top of Judy’s. Then he took his notebook out of his pocket and positioned himself beside the table. After a few minutes, the door opened and Davies appeared, escorted by Ballard and Porter. On seeing the clothing Davies blinked several times, opened his mouth, then closed it again, and looked at Stratton in bewilderment. Bang to rights, chum, thought Stratton. Bang to fucking rights.

Opening his notebook in case he needed a prompt, he said, ‘At nine thirty p.m. yesterday I found the body of your wife, Muriel Davies, concealed behind timber in a washhouse at ten Paradise Street, also the body of your baby daughter Judy concealed in the same outbuilding, and this clothing was found on them. Later I was at the Middlesex Hospital mortuary, when it was established that the cause of death was strangulation in both cases. I have reason to believe that you were responsible for their deaths.’

Davies stared at him, jaw hanging slack. Then he reached forward, picked up the tie, then dropped it back onto the pile of baby clothes. When he looked up, Stratton saw that his eyes were wet with tears. ‘Yes,’ he whispered, and then again, more loudly, ‘Yes.’

Chapter Thirteen

‘John Wilfred Davies, I am arresting you for the murder of your wife, Muriel Davies, and your daughter, Judy Davies. You are not obliged to say anything, but I must warn you that anything you do say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence against you.’

Stratton stared across the desk at the tiny man who sat beneath the naked light bulb in the interview room. There were deep troughs of exhaustion under his eyes. His coat removed, his over-large jacket stood proud of his shoulders as if there were a hanger still inside, and his grubby white shirt stood a quarter of an inch clear either side of the skinny column of his neck. Whatever else he looked like, Stratton thought, it wasn’t a monster. ‘Do you understand what I am saying to you?’ he asked.

The man’s prominent Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed, working saliva into his mouth. ‘Yes.’

‘Good. Please sign here.’ Stratton pushed a pen and the paper with the caution statement across the scarred wooden table. Davies glanced at it, then looked up, bewildered.

‘Sign?’

‘Your name.’ Stratton tapped the bottom of the paper. Davies picked up the pen awkwardly, as if he wasn’t used to handling such an object, and turned it round in his fingers several times before writing his name in a series of cramped, upward-sloping loops.

‘Thank you.’ Stratton nodded to Ballard, who sat beside him, pen poised, and, turning back to Davies, said, ‘Why did you strangle your wife and child, Mr Davies?’

‘Why?’ echoed Davies. Eyes narrowed, he peered intently round the room as if hoping to find an answer there.

‘You killed them,’ said Stratton, flatly. ‘You’ve just told us that. Now we want to know why you did it.’

‘I …’ Davies didn’t look directly at Stratton. His gaze hovered somewhere between the two policemen’s shoulders. ‘I done nothing wrong.’ The Welsh melodiousness in his voice was discernable for the first time.

‘Mr Davies.’ Stratton’s voice was deliberately loud. ‘So far, you have given us a cock and bull story about putting your wife’s body down a drain. You told us that your baby daughter was being looked after by people who turn out not to exist. You told your mother that your wife and child were in Brighton. You told your neighbours, the Backhouses, that they were in Bristol. Then you told us that Backhouse was responsible for your wife’s death and that he told you
he
was going to put her body in the drain. Now you’re telling us that you had nothing to do with any of it. It’s been a tissue of lies from start to finish, hasn’t it?’

‘I done nothing,’ repeated Davies, sullen now, like a schoolboy caught out in a falsehood.

‘What you have certainly done – consistently, I grant you – is to tell lies. We know that you killed your wife and child. You’ve just told us that yourself. Now,’ Stratton, resting his palms on the desk, pushed himself upwards and forwards across the table so that his face was barely six inches from Davies’s, ‘I suggest that you start telling the truth.’

Davies shrank in his chair, his white, creased brow beaded with sweat. ‘But I didn’t … I never …’

‘Mr Davies.’ Stratton leant backwards and folded his arms. ‘You have no choice but to co-operate with us. If you don’t …’ He left the implied threat hanging in the air between them for a full thirty
seconds, then uncrossed his arms and continued, in an eminently reasonable tone, ‘Fortunately for you, we’re patient men, and of course we have plenty of time. And I imagine,’ he said in a kinder tone, ‘that it will be quite a relief to get it off your chest. That’s what you told the policeman in Wales, isn’t it? You told him you couldn’t sleep for worrying. If you tell us all about it, we can help you. If not …’ Stratton sighed, sorrowfully, ‘then – much as we’d like to help you – we can’t.’

Davies cowered, seeming to collapse from within; hunched over in his chair he looked even smaller than before. Stratton could almost smell his fear, and with it the scent of victory. He leant forward, elbows on the table. ‘Well?’

Once more, Davies’s eyes darted about the room, frantic this time. Watching him twist uncertainly in his chair, Stratton thought, there’s no escape, chum – just get on with it. ‘
Well?
’ he barked.

‘I’ll tell you about it.’ Eyes flitting from Stratton’s face to Ballard’s and back again, he was speaking fast, with terrified eagerness. ‘It was the money, see? Muriel took the money off me, from my job, and she kept spending it, and she was always asking me for more, so I killed her.’

That’s more like it, thought Stratton. Now we’re getting somewhere. ‘How did you kill her?’ he asked.

‘I strangled her, see?’

‘With what?’

‘What …?’ Davies looked momentarily confused, then said, ‘A rope, wasn’t it?’

The way he said this gave Stratton the impression that it was something he’d learnt, or tried to learn, by heart and was now repeating. ‘Was it?’ he asked.